Tears on the Doorstep

And for yet another day, she sat on the porch, waiting. Waiting for yet another day. She felt like she hadn't moved in ages. Maybe she didn't, maybe she did. It was hard to be sure about anything anymore. Legs crossed, her tiny head resting on a tiny hand, she sat fiddling with the ponytail that her thick, black hair was tied into. After what seemed like hours, or was it days, she moved to adjust her frock. When did she last change? She couldn't tell

Patience is not a virtue that comes naturally to all. Some are born with it, some with too much of it - but how much of it is a virtue. Patient or numb? Numb or in denial? In denial or eccentric? Eccentric or lunatic? Where does one end and the other begin. Who draws the line? She for one, definitely didn't. She couldn't know for how long she waited, has been waiting, today or any other day. Has she been waiting her entire lifetime? Could she wait for an entire lifetime

Even if she decided to move, could she actually get up and walk away. In the chaos and confusion that numbness brings, patience lends itself a pain in the form of a deadly realization of futility. Futility - a feared consequence of that speculative emotion called hope. Emotion? She didn't know what else to call a phenomenon that often has no rationale and drives either action or the lack of it, in directions that the rational or irrational mind can see no logical destination to

And so she hoped. She hoped and so she waited for him to come home. And in all the time that she waited, questions churned around in her head - without analysis or answers. Was she too numb to answer these questions? Or did the questions make her too numb to answer. Either or both together, she could only be sure that she had questions and she didn't have answers. Who is he? Why is she waiting for him? Why will he come home? Was he ever home? Was he meant to come home? Why would he come home, if he didn't know about home, about her, or about her waiting for him?

If she didn't know answers to any of these questions, why should she wait for him. She stared out into the ragged path and watched the crowd pass. A blank stare through eyes that almost showed no signs of life. In that sea of men that crossed her porch everyday, could he have already passed? She couldn't recognise him. If she didn't know who he was, and he didn't know he had to come home, what was she waiting for? The fierce grip of futility squeezed her eyes so hard, that it breathed life into her in the form of a tear. A tear that slowly made its way out of the small pool around her eyes, down her tender cheeks on to her porch

It was the end of yet another day. In the twilight, that solitary shining tear made her look around. Behind her was a home, a happy home made of light that beckoned her day and night. Yet, the man she waited for, the sorrow of his absence was far more alluring than the peace and happiness that she shunned. She wondered if she was happy or if she was sad, for it seemed that it made her happier to be sad in futile expectation. Sorrow, it seemed, was an addiction

Curiosity made her look down that path. Many porches, many houses, so many homes. Outside the brilliance and the light, basking in the sorrow of twilight sat many other girls fiddling with their hair, and many other boys in solitary gloom. She wondered what they were waiting for. Patience seemed to be in abundance, but was it patience after all. Did they know what they were waiting for. She stood up to look for tears on their doorstep, a tiny sparkle of twilight on their porch

She couldn't see. Contemplating going back inside into the light, took but an instant. She sat down again. Twilight past, the sun set and she couldn't see. But she waited nevertheless. She sat staring at the place where that tear fell on her doorstep wondering if she would see the next morning, wondering if tomorrow was a brand new day or today all over again

It was so hard to be sure about anything anymore

Long, dark corridors and forever winding roads

He couldn’t move a muscle. He just sat there incapable of motion or emotion. He felt like he was from another dimension, like he was the only member of the audience sitting on centrestage in the middle of a play, not capable of anything more than the most basic involvement. And like any ordinary day, this man just sat there and watched. Above the crowd, above the people, above the life that is ordinarily ours. He could hear something distinct now, a familiar ringing in his head. It was the canopy under which his opinions grew, the immortal spring from which his decisions stemmed, the mould which cast the man he was. It was the image of himself that was inescapable, an image he found, was etched into the walls along every corridor in his soul. The chalk that marked the path for every stray line of thought, idea and emotion. A surreal fragment of his ego dictated to the man who dictated to a million others. It was conscious and subconscious; he could not resist that which he derives his strength from. To a man who cannot have friends, it remained his only solace. And once again he closed his eyes and tapped into that source again. And his lips began to move, whispering the words that made the man he is, and his father before him and all his forefathers as long back as he could remember

Above.. Beyond.. Beyond the wall of infinity, shattering that ultimate band. Above pride and humility, caressing life and land. Above the patron of divinity, endowed with the giving hand, Above the messenger in black, out of life, making sand. Above all good and all evil, all that is powerful and all that is real, all of time and all that is material.. In solitude, I stand

As a wave of strength filled his pores, he bit back a shudder and breathed as deeply as he could. When he opened his eyes, what struck him first was the futility of it all. Barely ten thousand men it took to defeat a country that stood for ten thousand years. Ten thousand men who would fill this room in less than half an hour. A room where jesters and dancers, poets and players were desperately trying to entertain. He looked around, trying to read their minds at this moment. Somehow, they all looked like mannequins that day. The jester was a laugh riot. Genuinely bumbling, knees buckling, speech stammering, profusely perspiring, an unbridled messy mass of fear. For once, the clown was truly funny. All the more so because that day, the clown was not he who was dressed like one. The dancers whose knees did not buckle, whose minds did not care. The poet whose words and praises were normally empty were now filled with sarcasm, half a smile decorating his lips and disdain resonating through his voice. The priest with his curses in disguise. How much longer, how much more, how many more would he have to take. The anticipation in the room infected him without a conscience

The air became so heavy he couldn’t breathe. The room was filled with a stench like he had never imagined. The smell of fear, and of loathing, affection and admiration, of defeat and victory, above all he could not take the smell that came from himself. A smell of defiance with a flavor of shame. A smell that could smother the heavens and scar the gods.

Finally, it came. The thud on the great big door ran a shiver through the room’s spine. The room sank into a silence that could be heard outside. The great big door opened and in they came, without passion or emotion, in unison they came, ten thousand men in uniform, and they filled the room, driving away the stench of anticipation. He could breathe now. He smiled and as they marched towards him, he shifted his weight onto one side and raised his right leg slowly and placed it gently upon his left. They walked up the flight of stairs, a sense of accomplishment written on their face. He noticed something weird about them. They all had the same expression, they all had the same face. As they walked towards him with swords in arms outstretched, he smiled. He smiled and he made up his mind not to close his eyes. He did not look, he did not stare, he did not see, but he did not close his eyes. And he began to say it all over again, once again. Above.. Beyond.. Beyond the wall of infinity..

Blessed is he, whosoever is free

Biting the spreading vibes and the jarring road
Alone in the cold comfort that darkness gave
Under sheets of rain that lashed through the haze
He embraced the pace and hit the throttle straight

He sped towards the nothingness that lay ahead,
filled with peace in pleasure and pain. He grimaced,
as man and machine merged, he bent his head
and bowed to the skies, from where presiding deities gazed.

Blessed is he, whosoever can be free

Moonlight

I have always failed to comprehend the popular conception of the ideal setting. Let me try to describe it by simply stating the facts, devoid of unnecessary decorative adjectives that normally tend to unfairly prejudice the average reader's mind; effectively presenting a nice, good looking, readymade opinion to him. A night sky, sprinkled with tiny stars and a full moon. A solitary bench under a solitary tree, a few feet away from the cliff. The only sound for miles around coming from the sea below.

So, I asked her, "What do you think it is?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"I mean, look at it. Around you, that is, why do they have to bring this up everywhere. The supposedly idyllic environment. Its been all over the movies and the stories, prose and poetries."
"Tch". She interjected, "Stop rhyming, you know I hate that."
"See. That's exactly what I'm saying. In this situation, you're supposed to be all romantic and fall for every silly and foolish thing I say. Here, even a suicidal threat, like jumping off this cliff is supposed to be romantic. At least, that's what we've been told. Instead, look at the truth. The absurdity of it all. You're irritated. I'm in one my against-everything moods and romance is the last thing we can think of; the stars, the sky and the sea are the last things I can appreciate. I mean, look at the moon. A plain white, circular disc. Couldn't it come in a more interesting shape or colour?"

I could see she wanted to scream. But, it was just too quiet to make a scene. So she grit her teeth and said, "Don't try to pin this on me as usual. I don't get irritated. You get me irritated. And stop all the lecturing, I can't stand it. And the only mood you have, is the against-everything mood."
"I'm trying to have a conversation here. Is that all you can say? What do you think?"

She blew up like a bottle of cheap perfume in a campfire. "I think you're just nuts. I think you're a little dysfunctional upstairs. And as for your opinion, I think the entire thought is pointless. Tell me something. Do you really think you're making a difference? Do you think you're a renegade? Do you think that's cool? What are you rebelling against? Everything and everyone? I'll tell you what I think. You rebel against nothing and no one. You don't even know what you're rebelling against. In fact, all you think and all you say is just a lot of hot air that looks decent but holds absolutely no value to what we, we as in me and every other living person might deem as life. Fine, so the only thoughts and opinions we have are what is driven into us by society, history and historians. We started the fire of lies and deceit and hypocrisy and now we're feeding it, fuelling it. Let us assume that all the great so called truths that you have been propogating all your life is indeed the absolute truth. But I want to know, what goddamned difference does it make?"

"But,..." I thought I should cut in here. If only for argument's sake.

And she went on, "Aren't you going to go to work tomorrow? Aren't you going to collaborate with other hypocritical mortals that live and breathe through a blindfold and a smokescreen? Aren't you going to smile at their dumbness, revel in their joys, work for their glories, go to their birthday parties and wish them for anniversaries of publicly perfect but privately failed marriages? Tell me, doesn't that make you a hypocrite? So, when your entire philosophy never comes to fruition and doesn't effect a change upon your own behaviour, what bleeding difference do you think it makes to me? Me, or to anyone else who nods to your umpteen monologues, or to anyone else who is blissfully ignorant of the absolute truths that you come up with time and again? And you know what, I've had enough of it all. I want to be happy, I want to be with someone who is happy. At the very least, I want to be with someone who can be happy."

And she took her car keys and marched off to her car. I thought of asking her if this means our dinner plans were cancelled, but I decided that it wasn't the smartest thing to do at the moment.
Well, I was pretty stunned. The girl spoke more in those five minutes than in the years during which I knew her. And I like it this way. I like it when people are subjected to extreme emotions; joy, desperation or anger. Those are the only times, they really speak their mind. Unless a person is below 4 years of age that is, and not yet naturally trained in the art of conditioned responses.

Anyway.... I was at 'But..'. But, I was going to say, the point I'm trying to make here is propaganda. Yes, the same propaganda used by various countries, Nazi Germany and the US: during world war II with the purpose of recruitment, increasing productivity, confidence and patriotism and preventing leakage of information. The US again: against the Taliban in Afghanistan, against Saddam Hussein in Iraq and now against the Al-Qaeda. By the Soviet Union, for Stalin and Lenin apart from other communist causes. By countries and businessmen, companies and godmen. Through pamphlets, posters and newspapers. Through the radio and the television. And most effectively, through your neighbour next door.

It hits me everytime I see my favourite-est president; not theirs or ours, but the world's own president, Bush Jr. give one of his most charismatic and eloquent appearances at a press conference. You know the speech, we've heard it all. We think about it, talk about it, we even dream about it. The content is etched forever in our minds and stirs the deepest, darkest fears in our hearts. That America is in danger. The war on terror. Terrorists bang out of hell are all over the United States trying to break their will, their courage, our courage, the world's courage. But we shall not yield, we shall be strong and show them that America's will, our will and the world's will cannot be broken. And so on and so forth. Of course, and a convenient God Bless America at the end of it all. Amen to that.

Herman Goering once mentioned (during the Nuremberg trials): "Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country." What hits me is fact and fiction. Hitler's Ministry of Propaganda and Orwell and his 1984's Ministry of Truth. What hits me is the perfect justification for a surprising victory in an election for a surprising candidate for president by a seemingly knowledgeable group of people.

But that's not a really ground breaking thought or philosophy you know. We all know it, it's been written about, it's been spoken about. Hell, it's even been studied. Movies have been made out of it. But that's all we see. The extreme example for the what-if question. What escapes us are all the ingenious, subtle touches that we ignore. Advertisements. Bikini clad women to sell automobiles and motorbikes when they can't ride and can barely drive. Anorexic models to sell designer wear. Let me not even get started on anorexia but would anyone even dream of putting the common, average, overweight, disfigured or even just not-figured man or woman on the ramp? The concept of beauty is the result of the biggest and longest propaganda of man. Why did snow white have to be snow white? Couldn't she have been coal black? If you stood in front of the mirror and asked the million dollar question, who's the fairest of them all, why does it have to show snow white? What does that mean, that she was like a snow-woman made out of sterilized cotton? Or an albino? Thankfully now, and especially thankfully for me, dusky is in, dark is in, even if it is thanks to some really cheesy Mills & Boons novels.

Not getting into pointless details, but all of society's opinion formed supposedly out of free will, be it on success, religion, god, caste, or even my above mentioned prejudice on women not being able to drive is part of an unnatural, vicious cycle of sub-conscious, in-built propaganda. One person's prejudice influencing ten of his friends and two of his children is enough for the spontaneous combustion of the phenomenon that ravages down generations; with each generation feeding the fire until it consumes society. Propaganda that fuels growing prejudice that in turn again fuels propaganda. Hand in hand, ensuring that people form forced opinions apparently, out of free will. Some opinions just went on ringing in our ears over the centuries, became embedded in our genetic make-up, subsequently becoming more than just opinion; a way of life, a fact, the truth.

You know, but she's right. She's always right. Tomorrow morning, I will go to work. To be successful. To someday, drive a sedan into a huge, horrific looking, distasteful bungalow. I will indulge in their hypocrisies, thereby accepting it myself. Revelations don't fill your stomach, they don't bring joy, they don't mean that you won't ride in the best of cars or superbikes. They don't mean that you won't ogle at slim, skimpily clad women on FTV or watch romantic movies with half an hour long dialogues between the protagonists sitting on a solitary bench under a solitary tree on a cliff, under a sky adorned by a full moon and twinkling stars. Revelations don't bring change, they bring peace. Everytime I indulge in any of the aforementioned, I know why I'm doing it. It maybe to satisfy social obligations, or to satisfy my very own cravings. But, I know why. In doing so, I may be hypocritical or I may be genuine. But I know. The knowledge that a country, an individual or the society may force an action upon me, but they cannot force an opinion. True freedom after all, lies within ourselves, in our minds. And that knowledge gives me my peace, for now.

I wish I could explain that to her. I wish she'd understand.

And so the mirror cracked....

That’s the one. That slimy, icky feeling. He got it every time he had to pick up a razor to shave. It’s sad, actually. When a man is 14, he can’t wait for a wee bit of facial hair to start popping their heads out. He can’t wait to lather the cream around the lower part of his face and use the razor like his father does. He can’t wait to be a man. At least feel like one as he tries to look majestic in front of the mirror. The majestic look of course, consists of merely a silly grin. He fails to see that a 14 year old boy who just shaved looks less like a man and more like a 14 year old girl. As the years go by, he begins to realize that shaving might just be a pain in the backside. His skin is rough and itchy. Worse, the stubble hurts his girlfriend and he soon finds out that a close shave and sex go hand in hand. If you don’t get one, you can’t get the other.

The man was in a fix. When a man has a hangover, he wakes up late. When he wakes up late, he just wants to get into a pair of trousers, run out of the damned house and reach office on time. The last thing he wants to do is pick up that razor and rip the bejesus off his face. Not a fix really, because he had already decided what he’s going to do. But, he was still in the process of deciding if he’s….decided.

So the man, in a moment of ingenuity, decided that it was time he became a little more assertive and a lot more decisive. He took out a coin and flipped it saying, HEADS!!. And tails it was. He looked around for a moment to make sure no one’s looking, and made up his mind, Best out of three. This was one of those rare times he wished he was married. These decision-making-thingies are just so much easier. Every question has a simple answer. And the answer always begins with a “Honey,…….?” For example, Which shirt should he wear? “Honey.........” Or for that matter, does he like tomato sauce? “Honey.........” Simple, very simple.

Outcome of the toss notwithstanding, the man thinks he shouldn’t weigh his decisions over a dumb coin and so he listens to his ‘wise inner self’, erases all thoughts of shaving and office and goes right back to sleep.

He woke up at six in the evening to that annoying ring tone on his mobile which meant he had kept a reminder. A little confused and surprised, he read the message. It said, “8.00pm: Dad leaves”. Cursing himself he sprang out of bed and started to get ready. He couldn’t believe that he had forgotten. His father had come over for the weekend to meet a relative. He didn’t want to make pointless conversation with his relatives, so he told his dad he’d come to drop him off at the station. Actually, he just wanted to party and make pointless conversation with strangers. A pang stung his heart when he thought about it but; Never mind, he thought, It’s only dad.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Suave, clean shaven, hair neatly combed and wearing his best suit. He wondered why there was this pressure to impress his own parents. Shouldn’t he? After all, he was an extremely successful investment banker. He should ‘look’ the part. But he hasn’t worn the suit to office and being an investment banker doesn’t impress anyone in office. Every one there is an extremely successful investment banker. It’s a hard job, he thought, I deserve to show off once in a while. But he realizes that he could have easily been happier in a ‘lesser’ job, there’s no way he can spend all he earns. But, there is that pressure to impress. To impress not just his parents or his friends. There is that pressure on his parents to impress their friends and relatives as well. Anyway, it feels nice when people look up at you, when they are impressed by you, he reasons. It’s a pity that it comes rarely, simply because every one at office and at those parties, every one inside of your personal and professional circuit is of the same league. And then it hits him. Like a hammer from heaven. He frowned as it dawned upon him that he studied hard in school, slogged his way through graduation in far away places, landed a great job and worked like a dog for sixteen hours a day, every day. In silence and loneliness, with sweat and for gold, he did all this, so that a few times a year, a few people that he might not know or care for, can be impressed.

I have a good life. I am in the upper class of society. Unfortunately, every class of society has a higher class of society, doesn’t it? Aarrgghh! The conscience is a prick. Oh yes, I most definitely am.

So, he got into the car and started driving down to the station.

The man didn’t like too many people and probably looked up to none. In the very convenient haze that a super-ego provides, he could see none superior, none greater, no flaw in himself and nothing lacking. In fact, there was very little he could see. He couldn’t see anyone above, below or around. All he saw was himself. In spite of being supremely self-centered, the one person he would have died for was his father.

You know, it’s weird really. Some of the people you love the most are the people that you hardly ever talk to, that you barely ever get to spend time with. Sometimes, that’s why you probably love them. Anyway, that is not the case here. He truly loved his dad. He never understood the concept of sacrifice and therefore, he doesn’t remember when he last helped anyone out and therefore, he doesn’t remember any of his friends ever helping him out. But, he remembers his dad. He remembers a father who in spite of a mediocre job, managed to give his son more than just the bare necessities, strived to give him luxuries. A father who never let him feel that sting. The one that the lack of green fabric in your wallet can give. A father who never frowned. For the one man who ever did anything for him without regret or worry and without receiving or expecting anything in return, he was ready to give his life.

Touchy, aren’t they? Humans that is. Sentimental fools, I think at times. Here is this guy who wouldn’t bother to look twice if he saw a man strapped onto the railway track or bother to wrinkle his trousers doing something about it. Unless of course, it was his father. Not any father who has sacrificed or any one else’s father who also has sacrificed, but only his father. The problem with them, I thought, was never sentiment or attachment. It was the callousness to someone else’s attachments or sentiments.

And this was the person he has spent the least time with in the last six years. He almost always avoided thinking about it. It hurt him, but he didn’t do anything about it. Strange again, you see. The man would die for his dad, but he will not pick up the phone and speak to him. God, he’s a walking, talking contradiction. The idiot does not realize that a phone call will probably make his dad happier than if he really died for him. Anyway, he did feel bad. He really did feel bad for his dad.

He parked his car and went to the platform. He looked up to see a big clock that read: 1930 hours. Half an hour of quality time, he thought. Through the swarm of people, he saw his old man on a bench, reading a newspaper, patient as ever. As he got closer, a strange calm filled him. With each step he took, a primitive peace rose within. He could not say if he was happy or if he was sad. He was not numb, but he could not say what he felt. At least this time, he would tell him. He would tell his dad how much he means to him. How bad he felt for him. Walking up to his father, he gave him a hug and sat down.

"How've you been, Dad?"
"Retired, but not yet tired.", he said, smiling as he realised it was a poor joke. "Seriously, I'm fine. My life hasn't changed much. This train keeps the same pace, stops only at the same old stations."
He shrugged as he felt even worse."But, how can you live like that Dad, doesn't it get monotonous?", he asked.
"Do you have an interesting life son? Do you keep doing new things everyday to keep you from getting bored?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, I know. I did that for sometime. Then I got bored of doing interesting things. Some ass said that change is the only constant. It's not only constant, it's bloody monotonous. You'll find out, don't worry.", his father said and ruffled his hair like he was a three year old. "Anyway, how's work at office?"
"It's getting hectic, but it's ok. They're paying me more as well.", he wasn't sure if he was informing or justifying. As he said this, he noticed that the train had begun to move. Realising there wasn't much time left he said, "Dad, I have to tell you something."
His father looked at his watch and turned to him, "No, I have to leave now. Listen to me. You don't know how bad I feel for you son."
The heavens opened, and hammers fell. I'm laughing but the man is being hit all over.

"You work night and day without direction or purpose.", he continued. "You earn, but you don't have anyone to spend it with. You aren't getting any younger, you know. You can't sleep around with strange women forever. Tell me, where do you think you're going with life? Look at me, son. I had a lovely wife and a beautiful child. I earned enough to keep them happy. I spent enough time at work and even more at home. I was never troubled, worried or harassed. I'm hitting seventy, looking forty and feeling twenty. Peace is all my life has been about." He got on to the train, stood at the door and said, "Do something about your life, darling. I feel really sad for you."

I'm rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off. The man didn't know what to say, he just stood there and watched as the train went past. Now, he felt numb. I don't know why he bothered to think like he did. It's weird, really. Man will only look from an angle from where he looks best. Perspective doesn't really mean you look at things in one way. It means you can't or you don't want to look at it in any other way. I don't know why he bothered to think at all. Men think. Hmmm...... I think that's where the problem lies.

Dive

Do you remember that chap, Hercule Poirot? 56B Whitehaven Mansions, Sandhurst Square? No? Quite a charming fellow; his prudish dressing, the accent and the egg-shaped head. The icing, undoubtedly, was the meticulous moustache. But, that’s alright. You didn’t miss much. An absolutely intolerable chap, really. Eccentric and egocentric. He was just TOO prim and proper, if you know what I mean. If you ask me, my advice is simple. Go to Sherlock Holmes, any day. Now, there’s my kind of guy.

But still, I have to admit, Poirot was not wrong all the time. He kept saying that answers always lie in “the little grey cells”. I agree. I am a thinking man. I like to sit down and think about anything and everything; past, present and future. I always have to first anticipate a situation and then consider all the possibilities within that situation and then just sit back and……think. It doesn’t matter if I can’t come up with a solution. The fact that I have lived it in my head before it occurs outside of it, acts as something like a meta-experience, if I may coin such a word. An experience of an experience itself. Therefore, it so happens that I am always thinking. About useless and ( at least seemingly ) irrelevant things. But I am still a novice at it. After all, I have been doing it for hardly a couple of decades. So, most of the time, in fact, all the time, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know where I began and I don’t know where to go from there. Every possibility leads to many possibilities and so on and so on and so forth. I always manage to get lost. Unfortunately, in the labyrinth of the mind, I am no Theseus and there is no Ariadne, and I cannot use a thread to maneuver my way in and out. But, the Minotaur lurks, at every wrong turn, at every evil twist of imagination.

The mind is razor sharp. Mine, yours and theirs. The only problem is that some know it, and others don’t. Your mind, after all, is only as sharp as it thinks it is. The mind works fastest, at a blazing speed, when it is under pressure. Sadly, it must be taught the concept of direction. It must be trained to be a vector. But, the mind is not the kind of thing you can tempt with a carrot and a stick, or threaten with a whip. Before you train the mind to watch where it is going, you have to train yourself to watch it. If you are able to follow the mind, you will be able to persuade the mind to follow you.

That is why I come here: three miles out into sea. Just me and the sea. I am the frog in the well, watching the fog hold infinity in the palm of its hand. It is the middle of the night, but I see no moon. I am in the middle of the sea, but I see no sea. There is just a circular patch of water marking my visibility. Here and now, and only here and now, I do not mind losing my individuality. As the fog and the cold slowly seep into me, I feel that we have interchanged states of matter. They bite, and I just feel. I do not act, I do not react. I only feel, and they only bite. It is time; I remove my shirt and let them in. After a while, when they have stopped biting and we have reached our understanding, I prepare myself. I prepare myself to think. There is nowhere else I’d rather be, there’s nothing else I’d rather do. I need to think. I need to watch myself think. With the pressure, the thoughts change. They morph; seamless, effortless. And I need to catch them, I need to hold them, I need them to obey.

The air is rare and the water, cold. I breathe deeply and let myself go. I don’t pull a stupid face, I don’t hold my nose, I don’t puff up my cheeks. I just let myself go. The water sizzles on my skin for a brief moment, and then loses heat. Under the water, I am outside the dream. I can see the fog hold my dream, my well. And I can see me, waiting to be…..me. It has started.

I look down and proceed. The trick is to get as far down as your breath would allow; reserving nothing for the journey back. With every movement in descent, I go years behind. With every thrust, I explore countless forward and parallel dimensions. I can feel the air being sucked out of me, slowly. I don’t let out any air and yet, I feel like someone opened a tap in my lungs. I feel empty and my mind starts to fill it. Memories start flooding in. So many things, all at once, I cannot feel the joy and I cannot feel the sorrow; I cannot feel. I only watch. The mute spectator as the story unfolds.

The water sizzles again, I can feel the heat emanating from my lungs as it tries desperately to create air out of thin water. It will soon be time. My mind races, gathering speed with every passing moment. I struggle to keep up. The flood is going out now. Ideas shoot forth. In every direction, I do not know which one to grab on to. I explore as many as I can, simultaneously. The darkest corners of my mind are lit; they expose their most evil intentions. I should be scared, but I cannot. They are, after all, mine. I see the good, I see the weird. I see a streak of the freak that lives in us all. My lungs have burst. Oh, the pain. The soothing pain. It is time to return.

I turn and begin to return. I look around but sadly, there is no blood. The lungs have burst in vain. The pain is dead, only the heat remains. The horses in my mind run amok. There are too many and they are too wild. I still try. Every instant, there is extreme content and extreme horror. I do not believe the horrors of my mind do not identify me. After all, the imagination is the biggest bubble. You cannot perceive what is outside of your imagination. And what you can imagine is only what you are capable of. We can see what we cannot touch. We see what is beyond our immediate physical realm, thereby, extending it to our immediate physical surrounding. The environment exists and you understand it, only because you can see it and can therefore, touch it, feel it. The imagination is our eyes. What we imagine may not be a part of us, but it lies in our imagination only because, it has the capability to become a part of us. On the same lines, what is outside of our imagination, we may never be able to accept or identify with; but that does not mean that they do not exist.

I do not feel the need to breathe anymore. There is no pain, no burning sensation. There is no sea, no cold, no heat. There is just me and my mind. Me, in my mind. As I slowly float to the surface, I can see the fog again, the well with my boat. I can see my dream, waiting for me to drown in it again. I do not resist. Arresting all the horses within my mind, I keep them away for some time. Until next time. As I hit the surface, the pain returns. All at once, all the pain. I burn until I am forced to breathe, to take in as much air as could be accommodated. I climb on to the boat and look down to say goodbye. I am back in this dream now. I know I will come back soon. Reality is far more alluring than this dream. I need to think, I need to watch myself think.

I start rowing back to the shore. Slowly, steadily. There is no hurry. There is time. Every time I get back from these glimpses of reality, every time I dive out of this dream, I appreciate the silence. The glimpse of freedom. I can have it any time I want. Not for long, Not always. But, I can have it any time I want.

I have my peace.

Reach

They, do not fly, who haunt the clouds.
They, who soared, had no wing sprouts.
When the heavens call and you need to fly,
lie on the ground as you kiss the sky.